


Far from Home

by Elf (Elfwreck)



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Gen, Mystery, Spoilers for Knives Out, casefic, dialogue-heavy, mention of covid, mentions of anti-maskers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elf
Summary: "I wondered, might you be willing to meet with me? I dislike discussing confidential matters over the telephone. Perhaps I am a bit paranoid, but I do believe some issues should be addressed in person."
Comments: 18
Kudos: 68
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Far from Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunriseMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseMagpie/gifts).



> Much thanks to Snickfic for the beta!

Almost a year after the whole… situation, Marta's life had mostly settled down. She had a ridiculous amount of money and a ridiculously huge house, and now she had a _security staff_ because acquiring millions overnight meant acquiring stalkers overnight. But life was definitely better and mostly good, even with the stalkers and the occasional marriage propositions from people who would never have looked twice at her when she was just Mr. Thrombey's nurse. Things were mostly normal. Well, except for the parts where things were _not_ normal for anyone.

She waved at the grocery delivery guy through the window, made sure he saw the envelope with the tip and a couple of extra masks, and then brought in the bags to unpack them. When she was done, she went back to her office and realized she'd missed a phone call. Benoit Blanc had left her a message. 

She hadn't heard from him since the day after the trial, when he called to congratulate her. Suddenly very nervous, she hit play. His voice was that same calm, patient drawl she remembered. 

"Miss Cabrera, this is Mr. Blanc. I wonder if you might have a few moments to speak with me. It's on a matter of no personal concern to you, but some urgency for me, so I would very much appreciate a return call." 

Nothing in his voice said "urgent," but then, it never did, even when he was talking about murder. She called back right away and he picked up almost immediately.

"Miss Cabrera," he said.

"Hi. Um. Hi, you called? Is there a problem?" Had something happened with the case, she wondered. Had… had Ransom gotten out of jail?

"No, not a problem, as such. Or rather, not a problem for you." He paused, and she could almost see his face shifting. "I wondered, might you be willing to meet with me? I dislike discussing confidential matters over the telephone. Perhaps I am a bit paranoid, but I do believe some issues should be addressed in person." 

"Oh. Um, of course. You could come over, I guess? I don't go out for coffee right now." 

"Of course, of course. Your place… do you mean the mansion?"

"Oh no, I have an apartment near Lahey. The Thrombey place is being used for patients."

"Patients?"

"Yeah, I'm loaning it out, or donate-renting it, something like that, to a long-term care org. They're using it for elderly patients who don't have COVID. It's currently got about a dozen people and some live-in nurses. My financial advisor says it's a tax writeoff or something. Anyway, it's being used." 

"That sounds like a wonderful use for it, and I'm glad you have found yourself assistance in managing your financial resources." 

"Thanks. I couldn't stay there, not alone. All those empty rooms…"

"Of course, of course. So, not to be hasty, but as I mentioned, this is a matter of some small urgency—"

"Right! Let me text you my address. When would you like to meet?"

"As soon as possible, if that is convenient for you." He always sounded so _formal_ , even when he was obviously rushed. 

"Sure. I'm off for the next few days, so anytime is fine."

"In that case, I will arrive shortly. I thank you for your time, Miss Cabrera." 

"You're wel—" He hung up. 

A few minutes later, they sat at opposite sides of her living room, the window open to keep the air circulating, even though they both wore masks.

He put his hands on his knees and looked directly at her. 

"Miss Cabrera, I have come to ask you a favor."

She started to say, "Of course, anything," but he cut her off.

"I am aware you may feel somewhat beholden to me, and I _do not want_ to use that as leverage. However, I am currently working on a case in Boston, and I have the feeling there is… something I am missing. I could use an extra pair of eyes, a fresh perspective, as it were."

"But… I'm not a detective," Marta said.

"I know that. I am not asking for detective work. This case…" he paused, looked off into the distance. He spoke introspectively rather than to her. "Most of my cases have no particular time constraints. The dead are in no hurry; if I find the truth of the matter in a day, or in a month, it matters not to them. Some evidence requires a certain immediacy, but for the most part, as long as all the pieces are arrayed before me, I can take my time to assemble them correctly."

He drew in a breath, and looked back at her. "Not so, for this case. I am trying to find a missing child, a little girl, and every hour matters."

"Of course I'll help!" said Marta. "What do you want me to do?" 

"I had hoped you would say that. I would like you to accompany me to the house and just… look around. Ask questions, should they occur to you. Tell me your thoughts afterward."

"Right now?" Marta stood and reached for her coat.

"My dear, that is the reaction I had hoped you would have. I'll explain the details on the way."

In his car, he told her about the case. His voice was slightly muffled by the mask, but his drawl was slow and steady; he wasn't hard to understand, even through the car noises. 

"Former state senator Derrymuth's six-year-old daughter has gone missing, and he claims she has been kidnapped. There is no ransom note, but her father's status has brought threats in her direction in the past."

"Kidnapped! How could I help you find a kidnapper?" 

"I don't know that you can. I just know that… I don't have the full story. There's something I'm not seeing. And normally, I'd just…" he shrugged, "poke around, as you have seen. I talk to people, ask them questions that make them uncomfortable, and wait for the police to find their next bit of evidence. That has been my method for many years, and it has served me well. However, I have rarely been involved in cases where the victim is waiting for an answer." 

He frowned. "A little girl, away from her home and family, should not be kept waiting on my muddling through at my own pace. So I am asking for your help."

"But… why me? I'm not a detective," she repeated.

"No, that you are not. But you are _honest_ , and you have some experience with the wealthy and powerful—with the difference between what they say, and what they mean. And, in the interest of full disclosure, because you are _here_. I am far from home, and I have few contacts in this area. Even fewer whose discretion and kindness I would trust."

"Thanks." Marta pondered that for a moment. "You think someone in her _family_ …?"

"I don't think anything, yet. And I don't want to say too much, because I value your unsullied perspective. I would just… like you to meet the household, look around a bit, and give me your thoughts. Maybe knock loose a few things in my head. Something is… something is stuck." 

They were both quiet for the rest of the trip, until Blanc pulled up to a brownstone and said, "Here we are." 

Blanc rang the doorbell, and a middle-aged Latina woman answered it. "Mister Blanc, you are back! And this is…?" she asked, with a noticeable Spanish accent. She did not wear a mask.

"Hello again, Maria. This is Miss Cabrera; she's a… consultant I have asked to assist me. May we come in?"

"Of course, of course. Hello, Miss Cabrera," she nodded at Marta, and led them into a study. "Please wait here; I'll tell Mister Derrymuth you have returned."

"Thank you, Maria," said Marta. "Please, call me Marta." 

"Oh no, I couldn't," she said, shaking her head. "Not while I'm working," and quickly left.

Marta looked around at the fancy furniture, much more modern than anything at Harlan's place; the whole place screamed _tastefully upscale_ rather than the _wealthy and eccentric_ style she was used to. She kept her face blank and polite as she took in the exquisitely matched furniture, the subtly ostentatious art on some of the shelves, the total lack of books or signs of anyone's actual hobbies. She could feel Blanc watching her, but she had no idea what he was seeing from her reaction.

Senator Derrymuth was a late-middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a dazzling smile. "Hello, Benoit! Back so soon? I thought you were researching leads! And who is this?" He held out his hand to Marta, but she didn't move from her spot on the couch. Marta carefully did not frown at him for not wearing a mask around guests, but she couldn't make herself smile back.

"Hello, Michael. This is Marta Cabrera, my associate. She is a nurse, and I'd like her to look around a bit."

"A nurse, eh? Do you suspect medical complications to the kidnapping?"

"I have not ruled anything out, as of yet, and would like to make a thorough investigation," he said.

"Thorough, of course. And this… Miss Caberra, she'll be helping you find my Willow?" 

"Cabrera," she couldn't stop herself from correcting him. 

"Pardon?" he stopped to look at her, frowning. 

"It's Cabrera. Ah. Sorry," she apologized as she realized she'd just drawn extra attention to herself and annoyed Blanc's current employer. 

"Oh. Ca-BRER-ah," he sounded out slowly, puzzled. "Is that Spanish?"

"Yes," she said, wishing she could sink into the floor.

He turned back to Blanc, looking confused.

"You brought in a Mexican nurse?"

"I brought in a nurse because I believe her experience may be of use; I didn't believe her ethnicity would be relevant." 

Marta noticed that he hadn't said her _nursing_ experience would be needed, but Derrymuth didn't. Still frowning, he agreed to show them the house.

Marta got a half-hour tour of a dazzling kitchen, dazzling dining room, dazzling drawing room, and a quick peek into several dazzling bedrooms. She felt sorry for Maria if she had to keep up with all of this on her own. Eventually, they stopped at Willow's room. 

She breathed a sigh of relief when it was less modern-and-fancy than the other rooms. It had a bed with a flower-patterned comforter and lace on the bedposts and a child-size desk with a laptop, no doubt for attending school online. The other side of the desk had a single, adult-size chair, probably for a nanny or tutor. Along the walls above the bed were shelves with very fancy dolls on them, obviously a collection; they all had the same face, but different hair and eye color, and outfits from different historical periods. It had a small dresser and a closet, and that was all.

"May I look around?" she asked. 

"Of course," Derrymuth agreed, although he didn't seem happy about it.

She looked into the desk; it had notebooks, pencils, and crayons. A few schoolbooks sat on top of the desk. A single framed picture hung over the head of the bed, a photo of the senator with his wife and Willow, an adorably cute girl with blonde hair and dimples. Marta smiled at the sight. 

The dresser drawers contained normal clothes; the closet had dresses and skirts and shoes, nothing out of the ordinary for a six-year-old. She looked around again, trying to figure out what she was missing. 

Eventually, she turned to Derrymuth and asked, "Where are her toys?"

He rolled his eyes at her, and pointed at the dolls. "Her dolls are _right there_ ," and Marta could hear him biting back _you stupid bitch._ He probably stopped himself because Blanc was in the room. 

"Oh, of course," she said. "But they're up so high. How does she reach them?" 

"Miss Teresa—her nanny—gets them down for her when she needs them," he said, with that tone of voice that implied _these are valuable collectibles_.

"Ah. Yes, that makes sense," she murmured, even though it really didn't. She looked around a bit more, but couldn't think of anything to ask, and didn't want to spend any more time here. "Thank you for showing me her room," she finally said.

Derrymuth harumphed softly, and led them both out. When they returned to the study, Mrs. Derrymuth was there, wringing her hands. 

"Oh, detective, you're back? Have you found anything? Who is this?"

Before Blanc could answer, the senator cut in. "This is Miss CaBRERa, a nurse. Benoit brought her along to check out Willow's room."

"A nurse?" She looked puzzled. "But Willow wasn't sick." 

"Well, honey, we don't know that for sure," Derrymuth said. 

"I guess? But she hasn't gone anywhere for months."

Blanc cut in. "I have no reason to believe young Willow was sick. I am just… covering all the bases, as it were. I wouldn't want to miss any details that a medically trained specialist might notice." 

"Oh. Okay," said Mrs. Derrymuth, still confused.

Blanc nodded to both of them in turn. "I thank you for your time today, but I must be going now. I will keep in touch and let you know when I have new information."

Mr. Derrymuth nodded, recognizing the goodbye for what it was. "Alright then. Do you think you'll… both be back?" 

"No, I do not believe Miss Cabrera will need a second visit." 

Marta looked at him— _I won't?_ Not that she had any idea why she needed a first visit. But she certainly had no interest in returning to this house, so she was fine with that.

She murmured her thanks and goodbyes; she didn't think either of the Derrymuths heard them or cared. 

As soon as he started to drive away, Blanc glanced at her and said, "My dear, you were _magnificent._ "

"I was? What did I do?" Marta certainly didn't feel "magnificent." 

" _Where are her toys_ —of course! How could I not have noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Clearly he was seeing something in a lack of toys that she wasn't. Marta saw a rigid, formal family, and felt sympathy for poor little Willow stuck in a house of fashionable art with no Legos or Play-Doh or even Barbies, but she couldn't see how that connected to a kidnapping. And while the parents seemed a bit cold to her, their concern for their daughter felt true.

"Miss Cabrera, I have no children of my own. My normal course of employment rarely leads me to contact with small children. While I have, of course, _met_ young children, and seen countless movies and television shows in which they are present, I do not have a sense of _how they live_ , when they are not facing a camera or attending formal family events."

"Oh...kay?" Marta said. None of this was surprising to her, but she couldn't figure out where it was going.

"So when I see a room that looks like a picture-perfect representation of a wealthy family's child's bedroom, it raises no suspicions in my mind. I have seen rooms like that in a hundred movies. I have seen them in thousands of magazine advertisements. And never once—until today—did I realize that none of those rooms were likely to have housed real, living children." 

He said this like he was dropping some kind of bombshell, and she just… didn't get it. Marta stared at her hands and muttered, "I feel very stupid." 

"What? Why would you feel stupid?"

"Because obviously there's some big, important thing going on here, and I just can't see it."

"Ah, no! No, you are not stupid at all! You are just _not a detective_ , as we have already established. You have, however, provided me with a crucial missing piece and unstuck my mind; I now have new directions to explore, because of you."

"What new directions? I'm… very confused."

He reached over to pat her shoulder. "Here, just listen," he said, as he pulled into a parking lot and got out his phone to make a call.

"Detective Williams? This is about the Derrymuth case. No, I do not as yet have a suspect in mind, but I have a new direction for you to look. Please investigate this as a potential _runaway_ case, not just a kidnapping."

He paused.

"Yes, even though she's only six. Small children can be very resourceful. Start with any areas she used to play with other children—perhaps a park that was shut down during the summer, or a church. Anything within walking distance of the house." 

Another pause.

"The child hasn't seen her friends in months. What does she know about health risks? Nobody in her home wears a mask." 

A longer pause, and Marta smiled as she heard yelling from the other side of the phone. Blanc let the officer wind down before saying, "Yes, well, there is not a great deal we can do to change those habits. Please do let me know what you find. Yes, thank you. Alright." 

He hung up, and turned to give his full attention to Marta. "Now do you see?"

"She might have… run away? Because she misses her friends?"

"She might indeed. And I, for all my years of experience investigating people's homes for evidence of crimes and machinations, did not know how to recognize the signs of an _unhappy child_. You gave me that, and I will forever be grateful."

"But… She might not be unhappy. Some kids… don't care for many toys."

"I am aware of this. Perhaps young Willow takes after her parents, and enjoys the finer things in life, with no interest in mudpies or fingerpaints or those little plastic trucks that turn into zebras, or whatever they are this year. But… perhaps she does not. Perhaps she wants those things, and does not have them. In which case, perhaps she took herself on an adventure to go find them."

"That's… that's just… speculation?" Marta wasn't sure, but that seemed like a lot of maybes 

"Of course it is. Which is why the police will be investigating. But an investigation for a runaway child is different from a kidnapping investigation, and we can hope that, if young Willow did take herself out of the house, she will now quickly be found." 

Blanc continued as Marta tried to follow all that. 

"My dear, you have taken a load off my mind. I saw a missing child from a wealthy family, with no ransom note, no signs of struggle, and worried that the very worst had happened. You have opened my eyes to a very benign, even _hopeful_ possibility. So thank you, very much, Miss Cabrera."

She smiled weakly at him. "You're welcome?" 

He smiled broadly at her, and drove her back to her home. When they arrived, he thanked her again. 

She turned to face him. "I'd like to know what happens with Willow, if that's okay."

"Of course. Normally, there might be confidentiality concerns, but in this case... her return, or any less fortunate event, will no doubt make the evening news. I'll let you know what I can." 

"Thanks. I wouldn't say it's been fun, exactly, but it was certainly interesting. Maybe... keep me in mind, if I can help in the future? Or if you just want to talk about a case?"

"Young lady, I would be delighted to ramble in your direction. You are charming company, and," he tapped his head, "you help me put the pieces together." 

"Um, good. I didn't really _do_ anything, though."

"Sometimes, it's not so much the _do_ ing as the way of thinking. You have a fresh perspective, one I do not encounter often in my line of work. That's a precious gift, and I do not want to take advantage of your generosity by inflicting the darkness of my cases upon you."

She tilted her head. "That's... a little presumptuous, isn't it?" 

"Pardon?"

"I am a nurse, you know. I have seen dead people." She managed not to choke on the words. Sure, she had, but not a lot of them. "And a lot of people hurting." 

"So true, yes. I apologize for my condescension. Then if you are amenable to it, I would be very happy to converse with you, from time to time, including about topics that may be too unsavory for most casual discussions." 

"I think I'd like that." She smiled as she got out of the car, and he nodded to her before he drove away. 


End file.
